Wintering

All night, hemlocks drop their cones on stone steps.
If the cones were slippers, I'd unlock the latch

for the woman who fled from her home in her nightgown.
From under the purple shade of the pines she'd come

to warm her feet in my hands. If her gown were hemmed
in hailstones, I'd fold it over my shoulder to thaw,

and with my lips, drop a seed under her tongue. We'd fall
asleep listening as the pines mourn the waxwings—

those birds in black masks who huddle on high limbs
passing berries from one mouth to another.

Copyright © 2009 Kristin Bock All rights reserved
from Cloisters
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission